The Steel Bucket
by I've no clue what I am doing
Summary: Perspective shift assignment of the short story "The Friday Everything Changed" by Anne Hart. It's from the perspective of the bucket. Who else would it be?


They know nothing.

They sit before me. Hunched over their lacerated worksurfaces, slaving over bits of paper that they sully with their ignorance. They have not the slightest inkling that _I_ , their true superior, am watching, judging, their every move. Ha! they think me simple, but I am as learned as any of them.

The surface below me is smooth. Cold. Hard. Much like myself. And, oh, excuse the interruption, here comes two of my minions now.

This is a ritual for them. The largest of them always come to me when the sun heaves itself comfortably over the rough horizon. They admire the gleam of my complexion (or, at least, they _should_ ), take me by my finely arched handle and swing me (as I would be nearly empty) to the railway (noisy place, that is) and fill me with the cool liquid they call water. They then carry me, a little more carefully now, back to the school. These were the incidents of a "half-hour", as they would call it. Infuriating, really, especially in the winter. I very nearly freeze my handle off. Though I do appreciate the pause it gives me from the incessant droning of that old stove in the corner (who, in my opinion, is duller than the coal it burns). You would believe it half deaf, at the volume with which it spews and coughs and yammers! But I digress.

There. I am being replaced onto my _proper_ throne. And the tangle of children before me will soon sort itself out. Most times, when the dull brazen bell rings, this happens. I do look forward to when the humans leave and leave me to my cogitation (though it does get awfully dark).

When that time is so near I can feel it tangibly, usually there is nothing of importance. The (SECONDARY) _monarque de la classe_ , or TEACHER (The Executive of Administration Chairperson and Educational Representative), so to speak, chooses the next set of subjects to carry me down and fill me again. It's all the same to me, so long as they are strong enough to lift me over the dust of the path and abstain from swinging me into thistles or kicking me for their amusement. Strange creatures, humans. You would think that they would treat the worthy with more respect. But, hello! One of my smaller and longer-haired subordinates is speaking! Why, that one wants a _girl-thing_ to carry me! What is a _girl_? Is it a type of machine? Is it any more efficient? The notion of a machine pleases me. Machines don't try to dent you for fun, as far as I am concerned. The blackboard (lippy, self-important thing) whispers to me, in a dry voice, that a " _girl"_ was a smaller, longer-haired human. Well! As if I didn't know!

Apparently, this is scandalous in the world of the humans - they are _such_ narrow-minded, contrary, peculiar things - as they are resistant to change. It's actually quite unsurprising if you consider it. It is obviously a high honor to bear me upon the journey to the water source, and the larger, shorter-haired ones (which I am informed are called _boys_ ) would be devastated to lose such a _prestigious_ privilege. Though I do believe their tactics at contriving not to do so are rather uncouth. They have no skill in psychological manipulation! They resort to those juvenile threats of physical violence and (rather pathetic) endeavors to coerce the girls into relinquishing their claim upon my person. I, however, am more concerned about who they choose to polish my splendidly metallic exterior, which I am _sure_ is being besmeared.

The boys are showing a certain _bizarrerie_ when they carry me to the pump. They grip my handle tighter, and stare at the water flowing down my sides resolutely, as if _that_ would be more effective than psychological manipulation. I have half a mind to strap them while lecturing them upon the importance of cherishing what one might lose. Alas! No hands.

Today is a fine day. I contemplate my position in the classroom. I assert a quiet, yet firm, authority at the front, and have a lord's eye view of everything. But, although this placement is desirable, a despicable draft comes from the eaves for the _sole_ purpose, it seems, to chill me to my fluid-filled core. I content myself only with the notion that the draughts near the means of egress of the establishment would be even more insufferable than the one at my present location. Ah, so are the dilemmas of existence!

There is a peculiar division amongst my subjects. The girls huddle furtively at one side of the room, as the boys loom in the other. The air reeks of tension. I am of more importance to them than I assumed (that cheeky chalkboard comments that it can't see how! Nervy!). This will resolve soon, I believe; the _maitresse -_ mistress - seems irked as of late. The bell is suffering a headache that results, it claims, from the rigorous ringing it has received from the _maitresse_ herself (though I believe that fellow's head, _pardonnez mon francais_ , has been damaged a long time before this).

I have positioned myself at the doorway. The drafts are not quite as unbearable as imagined. The humans amuse themselves in the highly illogical and seemingly random structuring of play, a folly to which no respectable receptacle as myself would deign. I am a noble pail, of exemplary material. However...watching the spectacle of running, shouting, and cooperation between them (save for the girls) is a refreshing pastime. It does a fine bucket good to see its environs in order. Unexpectedly, the TEACHER breezes past me, marches onto the field, wrests an instrument of play from the grasp of one of the boys, and joins the game. I would think a TEACHER would have more sense. I don't know _what_ is happening to the educational system. The TEACHER is surprisingly adept at this activity. I can tell by the perplexion and beads of sweat no doubt forming on the brows of the boys. The TEACHER swings the instrument, and a small spherical object soars into the distance, landing on an ox pasture, livening up the lives of the cattle there. Fascinating. For the cattle.

This diary of sorts has proved quite bracing. I feel, as laypersons say, like a new bucket. A final note for the termination of this experiment: two of the smaller, longer-haired creatures carried me last week.

Sincerely,

The Water Bucket, Ferrum Carbono Galvanus.


End file.
